Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Long-Legged Models

“Not yet,” Mason said. “A bottle of stout with the steak, perhaps a little garlic toast, and...”

“Hey! Whoa! Back up!” Drake shouted into the telephone. “You’re wasting precious time.”

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“Lt. Tragg of Homicide telephoned not over five minutes ago. They’re frantically trying to reach you.”

“Why?” Mason said.

“Homer Garvin, Sr. is being held for questioning in the office of the District Attorney. He refuses to make any statement unless you are present. The D.A. is going to call in newspaper reporters and let them know of developments unless you show up and unless Garvin quote satisfactorily explains unquote certain evidence against him.”

Mason hesitated for a moment.

“You there?” Drake asked.

“I’m here,” Mason said. “I’m thinking. All right,” he said, reaching a sudden decision, “where is Garvin now?”

“At the D.A.’s office.”

“Tell them to expect me,” Mason said. “I’m coming up.” He slammed up the telephone, jerked the door open.

“Oh-oh,” Delia Street said, “here goes a perfectly good dinner.”

“That’s right,” Mason told her. “It’s postponed. Garvin, Sr. is in custody. They have him at the D.A.’s office. He refuses to make any statement unless I’m present, and demands that they notify me as his attorney.”

“And they did?”

“They did.”

“That means they’re laying a trap for you too,” Delia Street warned.

“I know it,” Mason told her. “However, I’m going to walk into it. Take my car, go to the office and wait. I’ll get back there just as soon as I can and then we’ll go to dinner. I’ll take a taxi to the D.A.’s office. Okay, Delia, be seeing you.”

Mason thrust the keys to the car into her hand, dashed to the door, jumped into a waiting taxi and said, “You know where the District Attorney’s office is? I’m in something of a hurry.”

The lawyer sat on the edge of the seat while the taxi driver twisted and wormed his way through traffic.

As the cab came to a stop against the curb, Mason handed the driver a five-dollar bill, said, “A good ride, keep the change,” and sprinted for the elevators.

A uniformed officer sat at the reception desk in the District Attorney’s office.

Mason said, “I’m Mason. I think they’re expecting me.”

“Go on in,” the officer said. “He’s in Hamilton Burger’s office. Last on the left.”

Mason pushed open a swinging door, strode down a hallway flanked with officers, pushed open the door of an office marked “Hamilton Burger, District Attorney, Private,” and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

They were seated in shirtsleeves in a tight little group: Lt. Tragg of Homicide, a uniformed officer, a shorthand reporter, Homer Garvin, and Hamilton Burger, the barrel-chested, grizzly bear of a District Attorney.

The room was filled with a heavy aroma of cigarette smoke.

Hamilton Burger cleared his throat importantly, but first nodded to the shorthand reporter.

“Mr. Mason,” he said. “Mr. Perry Mason. Please come in and be seated. Let the records show that Mr. Perry Mason has arrived. Now Mr. Garvin, you have stated that you would explain matters only when your attorney was present. I am now asking you to explain the bloodstained shoe, and the print of that bloodstained shoe in the apartment of George Casselman, who was murdered last Tuesday night.”

Mason said, “Just a moment, gentlemen, if my client is going to make any statement, I want to talk with him first.”

“We’ve waited long enough already,” Hamilton Burger said.

“If I am denied an opportunity to confer with my client before this conference goes on,” Mason said, “I will simply advise him not to answer any questions and you can keep right on waiting.”

“In that event, we will not try to protect him as far as publicity is concerned,” Hamilton Burger warned. “Mr. Garvin is a responsible businessman. I have explained to him that we don’t want to work any injustice, that we don’t want to drag his name into this case so that there will be any unfavorable publicity.”

Mason said, “Let the record show that I have demanded an opportunity to confer with my client before the interrogation proceeds further, that I have been answered with a threat by the District Attorney to call in reporters and crucify my client with publicity.”

Hamilton Burger got to his feet, his face dark with anger.

Tragg said, “Just a minute.” He arose, walked over and whispered in the District Attorney’s ear.

“We’ll give you ten minutes,” Hamilton Burger said after a moment. “There’s an office in there on the left.”

Mason nodded to Garvin. “This way, Garvin.”

Garvin was out of his chair with alacrity. Mason opened the door and disclosed a secretarial office equipped with a typewriter desk, a machine, a cabinet of stationery, and several chairs.

Mason looked the place over quickly, then moved over to another door and opened it, disclosing a small coat and hat closet.

“In here,” he said to Garvin.

Garvin entered the closet. Mason switched on a light. They stood close together within the narrow confines.

Mason said, “That room is probably bugged. I didn’t like the expression on Burger’s face. He gave in too easily. Keep your voice low. Now tell me what the devil this is all about and tell me fast.”

Garvin said, “I should have told you before, I guess. I— Hang it, Mason! I was disappointed in my son.”

“Lots of parents are disappointed in their children.”

“Well, it’s all right now. I thought for a while he was marrying the wrong girl, but now I think he married the right girl.”

“By that, do you mean you think Stephanie Falkner is mixed up in this murder?”

“By that,” Garvin said, “I mean that I’m in love with Stephanie Falkner. I guess I always have been in love with her ever since I met her. I wanted Junior to marry her. That is, I thought I did. But when he married someone else, I... I knew I should have been disappointed, but I wasn’t. I was suddenly elated.”

“Have you told her about it?” Mason asked.

“I’m afraid I hinted at it. That’s all there’ll ever be to it. I’m old enough to be her father.”

“Barely,” Mason said. “Some women prefer older men.”

Garvin brushed the subject aside impatiently. “It’s not in the cards, Mason, but I’m telling you that one fact so you can understand the situation.”

Mason said, “We only have a minute. Give me facts, and give them to me just as fast as you can dish them out. You took that murder gun down to your son’s office and planted it in his desk. I wanted to divert attention from the gun you had left with Stephanie, and thought I could do something smart. I loused things up, and—”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Garvin said. “You’re all wet. I didn’t put any gun in my son’s desk.”

Mason said impatiently, “You went to Casselman’s apartment before you went to your office. Did you kill him or not?”

Garvin said, “Don’t be silly. Stephanie saw him after I did.”

“Just what did you do?”

Garvin said, “I stopped in to see Casselman on the way to my office. I had just driven in from Las Vegas. It was around eight-fifteen. I had a key that worked the lock on the outer door of the apartment. I didn’t want to tip him off by ringing his bell.

“You know how these street doors on apartment houses are, Perry. Almost any sort of key will work them. Well, I went up and knocked on Casselman’s door. He opened it, but didn’t invite me in. He seemed strangely disturbed when I told him who I was.

“He told me he had someone with him and was all tied up. He said I should return at eleven o’clock and he’d see me then. Then he all but slammed the door in my face. I took the stairs to the street.